


touching you, i catch midnight

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Academic Hermione Granger, Auror Harry Potter, Canon Divergence - Post-Battle of Hogwarts, F/M, Post-Hogwarts, Praise Kink, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-27 12:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Hermione didn't know when it had started, exactly. She suspected the roots were somewhere in her childhood longing for acceptance and the innate feeling of approval that came with doing things correctly, with learning all she could and getting things right, for once. But somewhere along the way, after puberty and hormones and the extrinsic upheaval of their last few years at Hogwarts (including the year on the run which she mostly preferred not to think about at all), it had turned into this:A fuckingpraise kink.---title from audre lorde's poem: recreation
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 132





	touching you, i catch midnight

**Author's Note:**

> um i have no defense for why i wrote this  
> but its been rattling around in my brain for almost six months now and i had to write it out  
> there will (eventually!) be a part two  
> (but i'm prepping for a cross-country move in the next months so i'm not exactly sure when!) 
> 
> anyway, here's hermione with a praise kink, because of course.

Hermione didn't know when it had started, exactly. She suspected the roots were somewhere in her childhood longing for acceptance and the innate feeling of approval that came with doing things correctly, with learning all she could and getting things right, for once. But somewhere along the way, after puberty and hormones and the extrinsic upheaval of their last few years at Hogwarts (including the year on the run which she mostly preferred not to think about at all), it had turned into this:

A fucking _praise kink_.

And it turned out that it didn't take much:

"Hermione, don't be modest, you were such a big help on the project in our department," from Bill as he passed the potatoes down the table to his pregnant wife made Hermione duck her head and hide the rising blush on her cheeks behind her hair as she crossed her legs under the table.

"You're doing perfectly, go on," from Draco during a meeting regarding a new Potions brew that they were formulating together had been enough for her breath to hitch and her nipples to peak. She'd gone to her office afterwards and cast Cooling Charms on herself until they were completely ineffective.

"Atta girl, Hermione!" Ron wasn't even that _attractive_ to her, not like that, not anymore, and he was just so genuinely excited about her progress in chess - _chess_! of all things! - and she felt so bloody ashamed because he was her friend, one of her best friends, and she shouldn't be overcome with a wave of lust just because he said she did a good job.

It was rather embarrassing, really, and what was more embarrassing was that Harry seemed to have cottoned on.

Harry, who had only become more observant in the last few years, more attentive, those bright eyes perceptive and knowing.

Harry, who had taken to the Auror training program like a fish to water, whose muscles had apparently been waiting for the correct motivation and the proper diet, who now looked rather mouth-watering and who happened to have the obnoxious habit of walking around Grimmauld Place without a shirt, with just his sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips.

Harry, whose voice had only become deeper and more demanding in the last year as he gained confidence, as he developed his innate talent for leadership.

Harry, who was her house-mate and her other best friend, who she definitely should not be looking at that way.

Or in _any_ way, really.

Hermione groaned as she stepped back up to the stove, stirring the sauce with her wand while flipping through a levitating book on experimental potions with her other hand. Platonic best friend. _Platonic_ _best_ _friend_. If she repeated it enough times in her head, it would be true, right?

She heard the rush of the Floo and braced herself for Harry to come through from the front room in his Auror kit or _worse_ , his quidditch gear after a late-afternoon pick-up game. It took effort to focus solely on the tome in front of her.

But then Harry limped through the doorway, his heavy bag slung over his shoulder and she lost every ounce of her hard-won focus. 

"What happened? Are you alright?"

Harry offered her a tight smile as he sank into a chair at the small, round table. "Nothing, really, it's fine."

"It doesn't look like nothing," she gestured to the gauze wrapped around his thigh, casting a stasis charm on the sauce, shoving the wand into the knot of hair on her head, and moving the book back to her shelf of read-while-cooking books.

"Just a stray hex, Hermione. Healers were busy so I just wrapped it up and came home."

Hermione sighed, tucking a loose curl back behind her ear and uncrossing her arms. "Can I at least take a look at it?" Between the two of them, Hermione's remedial field healing skills were far superior. Harry begrudgingly started unwrapping the gauze as she crossed the kitchen and stood on tiptoes, cursing herself for having removed the heels that would have made reaching for the med-kit far easier.

She turned back around, triumphantly clutching the small, expandable kit and found Harry's eyes on her, slightly unfocused as he looked at her legs, at the bare expanse of skin showcased as her skirt had ridden up. But Hermione was immediately more concerned about the gash across the outside of his thigh, one that was dripping bright red blood onto the floor and looked to be far deeper than the _nothing_ Harry had waved it off as.

"That needs Dittany, or it will scar." Hermione settled onto her knees next to his legs, pulling out her wand and casting first an antiseptic charm, offering an apologetic smile as Harry winced, and then a coagulation charm to let the blood clot before she reached for the small iridescent bottle.

"Ah, what's one more?"

"One...more?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Has this happened before, Harry?"

"Uh, well - just once or twice?" He shrugged as if unsure of his answer, but positive that Hermione wouldn't like any of his answers at the moment.

She huffed as she dripped Dittany onto the wound, nodding as it started to knit the skin back together slowly. "You need more Healers on your team," she huffed. 

"You offering?"

"Yeah, right." Hermione rolled her eyes as she stoppered the bottle and placed it back into the med-kit.

"I'm not joking," Harry said, voice low and intent as he leaned forward slightly to catch her gaze. "You're really good at that."

She averted her eyes as a flush spread across her cheekbones, down to her breasts, up to the tips of her ears, wincing at the timing of her body's reactions as she pulled out fresh bandages.

"I - it's just a bit of field care -"

"But you've always been good at it," he continued, seemingly unaware of the direct correlation between his gravely tone and the way she shifted her legs together to relieve a bit of pressure.

"I - I'm not a Healer, Harry."

"But you could be. And you'd be amazing."

"You - you'll need to - do you want to remove your trousers so I can wrap the bandages or do you want to -"

She dared a glance up at Harry, whose head was tilted as he considered her with calculating eyes, a look she'd seen a thousand times but never fixated on her, not like this. He flicked his wrist to release the wand from the holster on his forearm and quickly vanished his trousers, leaving him in boxer briefs and his long-sleeved shirt, emerald eyes never straying from hers as he did so.

"What?" she asked, finally.

"Do you want to wrap the bandages or should I?"

"Oh!" she shifted on her knees and started to wrap the fresh linen around his thigh, careful to make it tight enough but not too tight, knowing that even the best anti-coagulation charms and even the best Dittany wouldn't keep a wound from re-opening if the patient was particularly active, and knowing Harry, that was all too likely.

"You're doing so well," he murmured.

"It's - it's nothing," she stammered as she finished, carefully standing up on shaky legs, intending to turn back to the sauce.

But Harry caught her wrist in his hand, stroking a thumb across the tender skin as he looked up at her, a serious look on his face as he murmured, quietly, "Do you like it? Or do you want me to stop?"

She swallowed heavily as she considered their position - her standing between his legs, skirt high on her hips as his grip tethered her to him, and as she considered Harry. He knew, of _course_ he knew, and he was still going to give her an out.

If she wanted it.

She didn't.

"Keep going," she breathed, heart thrumming her chest like a hummingbird, feeling as though she was caught in a daydream charm.

He searched her eyes for an earnest yes, for honesty, to make sure that she meant it, and finding it – he allowed a soft smile to flash across his lips. His thumb stroked patterns across the tender skin on her wrist. “You’re such a good girl,” he murmured. “Are you going to be good for me?”

“Oh god,” she muttered, fully unprepared for the sight in front of her, for the dark look in his eyes as he considered her, for the warmth coursing through her body at the sight of him.

“I can’t quite hear you, was that a yes?” Harry brought his other hand to tug her hips closer, settling his warm hands on the curve of her hips, rubbing his thumbs on her hipbones until she was dizzy at the sensation.

Hermione nodded shyly and whispered, “yes, I’ll be good.” Her hands twitched at her sides – she had thought about this so many times, probably too many times, but having Harry’s hands on her in real life, in waking hours, in their kitchen – it was almost more than she could bear. Her pulse was racing along at an alarming pace, and he hadn’t even _really_ touched her yet.

Harry’s grin broadened as he leaned forward to press a kiss to the bared skin at her hip, where her blouse had come untucked. “Excellent.”

He dragged a hand up the side of her waist, across the lines of her breast through her blouse, around the curve of her neck, getting caught in the tangle of curls there–

“Oi, Hermione! Is Harry here? He forgot to check in with Auror Wilder as he left.” Ron’s voice echoed from the library and heavy footsteps indicated he’d opted to just come over, rather than firecall. 

The pair leapt apart. Hermione turned back to the stove, pulling her wand from her hair and pretending that the flush on her face was from the heat of the stove, and not that she felt like she was about to combust with desire. Harry, for his part, summoned his pants quickly before he called out, “In here, Ron!”

“Ah, there you are, mate,” Ron said as he settled into the chair next to Harry’s. “Alright then?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “Hermione patched me up here at home.”

 _Home_. She stirred the sauce and absently added the rosemary as she tried to quell the warmth and panic blooming concurrently in her chest. Grimmauld Place was home for the both of them. What was she _thinking,_ endangering that for a fling? Endangering their friendship for – for what? Just to get laid? To get an itch scratched? It was ridiculous, that’s what it was.

“She’s good at that, isn’t she?”

She swallowed heavily and flashed a smile over her shoulder at the gangly redhead at the table. “Thanks, Ron. Staying for dinner?”

“No thanks, ‘Mione,” he said, standing and stretching even as he shook his head. “I’ve got the next duty shift, but I wouldn’t say no to leftovers tomorrow?” His blue eyes turned hopeful as he looked between the pair of them, who both laughed a little (some things never change) but agreed to send an extra serving (or two) with Harry the next day.

And with that, he was off.

Which left Hermione determinedly avoiding Harry’s gaze, as she pretended to focus once more on the sauce, to pretend that what had happened had not happened, could never happen again. He was her best friend, her roommate, what was she _thinking_ –

Harry stood - the scraping of the chair on the tile floor snapping her spiral into pieces - and limped over to grab the half-full bottle of wine from the night before. It was a delightfully rich Cabernet - Kreacher had many talents, as it turned out, but their personal favorite was his skill at wine acquisition. (He picked up a small bottle of port for himself at each trip, so he'd found it to be an appropriate trade, and the latest inhabitants of Grimmauld Place had rather started to grow on him - _not_ that he would tell them that).

“Want a glass?”

“Yes, please,” she murmured, quietly, trying to return to wrangling of her traitorous thoughts into some type of order, accepting the glass gratefully and returning her focus to the sauce that was nearly done.

One more minute of stirring, a dash more of rosemary and – she inhaled deeply and let a smile curve across her lips. Her grandmother’s recipe never failed to disappoint. It was a shame she could hardly focus on it with Harry standing so close to her, leaning against the counter as they drank their wine in silence.

"Do you remember that time -" he started, and she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice, at the nearness of him "- when we were camping and Ron accidentally caught the tent on fire?"

A burst of laughter escaped her because, strangely enough, she had _completely_ forgotten about that. They'd attempted to go camping - honest to god, actual camping - before the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione had slung her dependable purse over her shoulder, grabbed the boys' hands, and they'd Apparated to some spot in the mountains in Northern Scotland. It had taken less than three hours for the entire plan to fall to pieces.

"I forgot about that," she confessed, turning to him with an easy smile. This was the friendship she knew so intimately, that was warm and comforting and easy.

"Don't know how you could," he teased. "I still have a scar on my leg from the burn."

"Well, at least _you_ remembered how to put out a magical fire."

Harry laughed and nudged her in the side. "Smartest witch ever, but magical fire flummoxes you."

"It doesn't make any _sense_!" she complained, finishing the sauce with one final stir. 

"It's magic," he said, in a dead-pan tone that she knew all too well.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Set the table, will you?"

"Sure," he said with a grin that said he knew she was trying to change the subject.

"Thanks," she replied, pecking him on the cheek as if it was a habit, as if it was something she'd done a million times before. She didn't even realize she'd done it until she spun around towards the table, noodles and sauce levitating before her in a delicate dance, and saw Harry still standing there with his eyes wide open, a flush on his cheeks.

"Plates?" she reminded him in a somewhat normal voice, gripping her wand tightly in her hand.

"Plates, right," he muttered, grabbing the appropriate dishware from the appropriate cabinets as Hermione poured them each a second glass of wine. It seemed... appropriate. For all that they were acting as if everything was the same between them, it wasn't. Hermione wasn't sure if they could ever go back, now that she knew what it was like to have him take control, now that she knew how it felt for his lips to press against her bare skin.

Now that she knew that _he_ knew and -

Well, platonic best friend didn't hold quite the weight it had only an hour before.

***

Once they'd settled in for a late dinner, spiraling noodles around their forks and sipping wine and talking about their days at work with a casual air that did nothing to dissipate the tension between them, Harry posed his question. "So, how long have you had a praise kink?"

"A -" Hermione spluttered and choked on her wine, coughing and slamming her hand against her chest before she was able to breath again. "A _what_?"

"Praise kink," he shrugged, the picture of insouciance despite the blush on his cheeks.

"You - how do you know what -" It was rare to see her at a loss for words, but Hermione could honestly say she hadn't anticipated this scenario. Harry had hardly ever been this brash - she shook her head quickly, feeling rather like an idiot that she hadn't expected this _sooner_. Impulsive was practically the his middle name.

Harry's smirk turned rather smug. "I read sometimes," he explained, as if that explained everything and did not, in fact, bring up several more questions. Hermione's lips quirked in a wry smile as she took another bite of pasta, trying to calm her racing heart.

"And what, pray tell, were you reading?"

"Well, it was -" Harry glimpsed the sly look in the witch's eye and became immediately suspicious. "That's besides the point. _You_ haven't answered my question yet."

"A while, I suppose. What were you reading?"

"That's not even an answer - "

"Why were you reading it?"

"You see, it's - "

"How long have you suspected about me?" Hermione was rather enjoying herself and wondered, absently, if she'd be useful for training the new aurors in interrogation or if she was simply very skilled at interrogating Harry until he spilled the truth from his lips. Considering interrogation techniques was _also_ a useful way to occupy her brain so that she didn't panic at the thought of exposing her innermost secrets to Harry.

"Last Christmas."

At this, finally, there was a moment of silence. Last Christmas? He'd known she had a praise kink for almost a _year_? Had _she_ even known she'd had a priase kink then? They'd been living together for two, after that ridiculous but required eighth year at Hogwarts and he'd never said _anything -_ although, she reflected, how could he? Why would he? Why was he, now, for that matter?

Hermione took the only route open to her: she finished her glass of wine with a stunning lack of aplomb.

Harry looked appropriately chastened as he realized this may have been, in fact, pushing the bounds of their friendship too far, and perhaps the entire moment in the kitchen earlier was merely a strange, shared fever dream. "I'm sorry," he said, quietly, not looking at her as he reached for his glass. "if I've crossed a line."

Hermione tilted her head and considered the dark-haired man across from her, his lowered shoulders and his apology and his consideration of her feelings. "You have," she replied, offering a hesitant smile as she set down her fork and met his gaze, summoning her Gryffindor courage once more. "But it's one I rather liked that you crossed, earlier."

His head snapped up.

There it was. The acknowledgement.

"Do you want to, uh, cross it again?" Harry asked, sitting up straight, the only sign of his nervousness in the way his hand twitched on the table, as if he wanted to rake it through his hair in a characteristic gesture he'd done his best to quell over the last few years. But she _knew_ him. Knew him better than herself, some days.

Hermione bit her lip, before tucking a loose curl behind her ear and nodding.

A wolfish grin crossed his face, and she swallowed heavily, suddenly feeling as if she'd gotten herself rather in over her head.

"You don't - you don't think it's a bad idea, do you?"

Harry looked as though she'd hit him with a confounding charm. "A bad idea?"

"For us to, you know - "

He raised an eyebrow and smirked at her. "Have sex?"

"Cross lines!" she said, aware that there was a bit of a shrill to her voice and that she sounded like a bit of a harpy, but she figured he was well-aware of her moments of bravery followed immediately by over-thinking.

He was also well-aware of the best ways to bring her out of her spirals.

"Hermione," he said, standing and holding out his hand, a warm smile on his familiar face. She sighed, taking his hand, anticipating the quiet walk to the library where they would sit and read and she could allow her mind to stop spinning for a moment.

But when they made it to the library, he didn't allow her to step towards her beloved armchair, nor the couch where they sometimes read together, her feet tucked into his lap, or his head resting on her thighs as she combed her fingers through his hair. He didn't let her pick up her latest leisure read from the coffee table, didn't allow her to call Kreacher for a cup of tea, but merely maneuvered her until her back was against the built-in bookshelves.

Breathing steadily was a challenge and keeping her hands from trembling was nearly impossible as Harry lifted her wrists above her head and left them there. Just - left them there, as if he knew, without a doubt, that she'd keep them raised, even without magic, even without restraints. She was torn between curiosity about what books, _exactly_ , he'd been reading, and a consuming spike of arousal that left her helpless to his machinations.

Harry traced his fingertips across her jaw, down the curve of her neck, tracing the peach-tinted blush, and started to unbutton her blouse, slowly, button by button, refusing to retrieve his wand to hurry the process. She bit her lip to prevent a whimper from escaping. 

"We're both adults, right?"

Hermione nodded, not trusting her voice as his fingertips skimmed the sensitive skin of her stomach.

"We can stop whenever we want, right?" Harry tilted his head, his hands frozen on the final button as he considered. "We can just say... Wazlib." There was a twinkle in his eyes that she recognized, a mischief, a private laugh between them.

Hermione nodded again, an amused smile playing on her lips. After their short-lived relationship after the final battle, she had no interest in invoking Ron's name in anything sexual, ever again - it would be even more effective than a cold shower in dousing whatever mood she was lost in.

"So what's stopping us from having a little fun together?"

She could recognize, on some level, that this was possibly a very bad idea - but she couldn't really bring herself to _care_.

"Nothing," she whispered as he unfastened the last button and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"Exactly," he said, eyes gleaming as he looked at her, absurdly pleased. She didn't move a muscle, her fingertips held delicately above her head as if he'd charmed them there, as if she was caught entirely in his spell.

"Oh," he murmured, "you _are_ a good girl, aren't you?"

Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat as his gaze traced every inch of her exposed skin, and she thought, suddenly, of the racy lingerie bought on a whim with Luna, months ago, hidden in the back of her dresser drawer, tucked away for the next time someone would see her.

The pale pink cotton feels staid in comparison, and can't possibly account for the look in her best friend's eyes. Despite everything he's said tonight, everything he's done, she still can't quite believe that he wants her. Really, truly _wants_ her.

Harry leaned in, closer and closer, until his hands hovered over the curves of her hips, until his nose traced the curve of her jaw and he pressed his lips to the tender spot underneath her ear. She shivered, unable to help it. "I'm not going to fuck you tonight. In fact, I'm not going to fuck you until you are begging me for it."

With that, he pulled away, a jaunty grin on his face. "G'night, Hermione."

She gaped at him as he took the stars two at a time, all the way up to his room on the top landing. She could hear him slip into the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Her hands slowly lowered - hesitant, even after he'd left - and she clapped them over her mouth, trying to prevent the laughing from bubbling out, the grin from spreading wildly across her face.

It might be a bad idea, but oh, it would be _fun_.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> feel free to follow along on [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jolieunfiltrd) for just, honestly, a ridiculous smattering of things.


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